


Under the Flickering Lamplight

by ThisisVenereVeritas



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Bonding, Drinking, House Cleaning, M/M, Pre-Canon, Preklok, Singing, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27071152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisisVenereVeritas/pseuds/ThisisVenereVeritas
Summary: Charles heads to Mordhaus late at night and learns the apartment is due to be fumigated in several hours, and that the boys left the place completely trashed and in disarray. Thankfully, the band’s newest member is more than willing to lend his assistance.
Relationships: Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Under the Flickering Lamplight

**Author's Note:**

> For Kloktober day 18: Domesticity
> 
> Warning: Minor animal abuse
> 
> I know...not very domestic. I tried. There is a house at least!

Charles woke up just before 11, incapable of shaking off the feeling that something was amiss. Staring into the darkness, he narrowed in on the peculiar sensation erupting in his gut. It wasn’t the first time he’s felt it, but it’s the first time it’s been strong enough to wake him from his sleep. Not quite a reflex, and certainly not out of instinct, the feeling patiently informed Charles to head to the apartment and check on the boys. Dethklok. Those boys.

It was a good thing Charles kept tomorrow’s suit hanging by the door. It made transitioning from one mindset to the next easier, though it didn’t quite help with that growing concern. No, there was something wrong at Mordhaus. An imbalance of some nature, and by the time he reached his car, accepted without complaint that he would need to locate a 24-hour drug store and procure cleaning utensils.

He arrived at the apartment complex just before midnight, and trekked up the flight of stairs carrying two bags filled with soaps, detergent, sponges, air fresheners, other cleaning devices and a single bottle of antacid. Why on earth that inexplicable inkling suggested he buy it was again, quite impossible to explain. Since acquainting himself with the band, Charles adopted this peculiar, unorthodox, sixth sense. No, “adopted” was perhaps too loose of a word. It merely arrived one morning, shortly after meeting the first four members, and had only grown and matured into a voiceless, but informative almanac that alarmed him whenever things were about to go wrong. A scratch of the mind that always seemed to go off just before learning the band was in dire need of food, a trip to the hospital, or a get out of jail pass.

There was an off-putting stench emitting from the front door. Charles dropped a bag to cover his nose with a handkerchief, but the satisfaction it provided was momentary.

Charles entered without announcing himself. The door was almost never locked, because there was usually at least one member of the band residing inside. Charles prayed whoever it was would listen to reason and explain the current issue at hand without resorting to excuses or blows to his character.

A large cockroach welcomed Charles with a wild dance from its long antennae before signaling to the others to scatter. Charles took a step back, returning to the cool moist Florida air to gather himself at the incredible sight before him. The floor was covered in waste. Judging by the powerful stench, most of it was trashed food containers, some of which had leftovers stewing and souring within. Charles pushed the handkerchief closer to his nose as he stepped forward, minding the small ecosystem that panicked and swarmed to a pile of trash bags filled with empty bottles and cans.

He looked around the living room, first to the couch to locate either Skwisgaar or Magnus, but found the space void of either guitarist. He noticed the coffee table was piled high with additional cans, filled ashtray, and empty wrappers. There was a single, used needle amongst the decaying festivities, which only deepened Charles’ concern.

A loud _ding_ rang in the kitchen, followed by someone clicking something open, and when Charles pulled himself away from what appeared to be mouse droppings on top of an abandoned sleeping bag, saw Pickles coming towards the kitchen counter with a stained to-go container in his hands.

“Pickles?” Charles called out, pulling the shorter man away from his meal to look up, raise a lanky arm and wave at his manager.

“Oh, hey Charles!” Pickled greeted with a wide, eager grin. He brought a hand to his head, probing and fixing any dreads and short, feathery strands of thinning hair into place. “Fancy seein’ you this hour!”

Pickles was in good spirits. It was almost always the case whenever Charles visited, and he was honestly quite thankful for it. He appreciated the band for the talent they put out, their willingness to attend gigs and produce music whenever asked, but there was no denying each member was stubborn in his own right. Pickles was still a new face in the band, and it was likely his placement as the final piece to this musical puzzle meant a better disposition than the rest. It might as well be temporary, but for now Pickles could be reasoned with, and with the exposed portions of the wall lined with a layer of something sticky looking, Charles needed that more than ever. 

“Pickles, what happened?” Charles asked, stepping over stained clothing, plastic bags and tissue paper to reach the man. When he finally made it to the counter, he placed the bags on top, knocking down bottle caps, pens, oil-stained papers, and scratchers.

Pickles popped open his Styrofoam container, revealing a steamy mass of something mostly red and greasy. “Oh, well, y’know?” he said, chuckling and providing a disinterested shrug at the whole ordeal. “We got that there fumigation comin’ in a few days, and the owners said they’d clean the apartment, so we kinda jus’…”

He raised his fork and, wiggling it, gestured playfully at the deplorable sight. Charles sighed, shaking his head in disbelief at the shared mindset of the band. Pickles rested his elbows on the counter, enjoying their dissimilar ways of interpreting the situation. Charles couldn’t fathom how on earth Pickles could laugh at the sight of bugs overtaking his home, but assumed there must have been some misinterpretation on the manager’s behalf. Fumigation or not, that didn’t excuse piles of garbage to amass in such a short period. If anything, such a mess would only prolong the fumigation process, or potentially render it useless. It would certainly upset the landlords. 

Charles glanced at the meal resting just under the drummer. “Pickles, what are you eating?”

Pickles poked at the curdling red sauce. “I think it’s a chimichanga? That, or a gnarly enchilada. Why, you like Mexican?” he asked, sounding rather hopeful. 

“Pickles, there is mold developing in the corner of that container,” Charles said, pointing at the questionable meal. “You cannot eat that.”

Pickles dropped his head, down to the container, and let his fork prod at the green and white spots that he must have confused for bits of old sour cream or avocado. “Oh,” he muttered, his smile disappearing into a small pout. “Oh, wow, that’s not good.”

Charles sighed. “How much have you consumed?”

“Huh, nah, I just got this out of the microwave.” Pickles answered plaintively, then stabbed at his ruined meal. “I’m just upset ‘cause there ain’t nothin’ else to eat here.”

“The fridge is…?”

“Well, the paper said to dump all the food we won’t have time to eat,” Pickles said, then looked about the countertop. He groped through some papers: yellow, white and pink. After a few seconds, he found what he was looking for, and handed the yellow sheet stained with oil and food streaks to Charles. “See, right there. Food’s gonna get poisoned if it stays inside durin’ fumigation.”

Charles didn’t need to be reminded of the dangers of pesticide, but upon glancing at the document, had his stomach do a flip when he noticed the date of the upcoming fumigation.

“Pickles, it says here the property owners will have the fumigators coming Saturday morning,” Charles remarked, dropping the document and letting it hang from his index finger and thumb.

“Yeah?” Pickles said as he turned and carried his rotten meal to the nearest trash bag.

“That’s at 10am,” Charles announced, then raised his watch to observe the exact time. “ _Today_.”

Pickles was midway through dumping the meal when he paused. “Oh,” he muttered. The perturbed look he wore was the only indicator that any of this finally mattered. “Shoot, thought it was Sunday.”

An empty bottle of chocolate milk toppled over. Charles looked around the room, at the amount of work that needed to be done before he could safely escort the band to a nearby hotel. Trash needed to be dumped, walls cleaned, and clothes tossed in bags to preserve them during the fumigating. What were the chances he could convince the entire band to participate? Again, Charles surveyed the apartment, and picked up on the eerie silence that filled the space.

“Where is the band?” Charles asked Pickles.

Pickles rummaged through the fridge, pulling out a cold can, and offering it to Charles before giving the top a crack. “Well, Nathan n’ Skwis went to his moms for the weekend,” he said after sipping foam from the top. “Left two days, I think? An’ Murderface got a ride over to his gram’s place this mornin’. Magnus took the car, but I doubt he’s spendin’ the night.”

If the limited timeframe wasn’t enough! To think everyone leaving early would further complicate matters. Well, there went any chance of bribing or convincing the boys to help clear out the apartment before tomorrow morning. Charles had a feeling it wasn’t going to be easy.

He sighed, dropping his head slowly right as Pickles slumped forward and continued to nurse his drink. Though he hung his head, Charles titled it just enough to catch the smaller man staring at him. “And you?” he asked, expecting Pickles to tell him he was just about to leave for greater pastures.

“I was gonna take a ride to the clinic the followin’ morning,” Pickles answered with a slight raise of a shoulder. The other remained still, dedicated to “By the looks of it, I oughta haul ass right now… shoot, I normally don’ wake up till half past ten.”

He scratched the side of his head, chuckling at the audacity of his predicament, then directed another, albeit anxious, grin at Charles. Charles didn’t find Pickles’ situation any more comforting than the one they were currently holed up in. If anything, the sense of urgency only grew upon hearing Pickles’ response. Charles appreciated the occasional random banter from the man, the peculiar ways he went about finding solutions, and his general humor towards situations that were otherwise out of his control, but Charles couldn’t allow Pickles to leave without a solid plan. No music stores or social gatherings of any kind were taking place at this hour, and while Pickles could easily spend a day sitting over a rented drum set, Charles knew eventually Pickles would have to leave and find a place to spend the night. 

“Where will you go until the clinics open?” Charles asked, and turned pale when Pickles awarded his question with yet another shrug.

“I don’ know?” Pickles confessed, tilting the can and letting some beer dribble as he raised both arms up. “Maybe just chill at a bar, or pass out in a park?”

A less than adequate response. At this hour most bars were looking to close. At best, Pickles would have shelter for an hour or two before being asked to leave. And sleeping at the park? It was bad enough Pickles surrounded himself with roaches and the likes... the last thing Charles needed was for Pickles to expose himself to fleas, ticks and other parasites. No, that simply wouldn’t do.

“Let me take you to a hotel, Pickles,” Charles said, and watched Pickles slip under his own footing, coming close to hitting his head against the countertop. He stumbled up, picking himself upright, unconcerned for the beer can that hit and spilled all over the floor. 

“Fer real?” Pickles asked, face turning red. “Holy shit, dood, are you serious?”

“Yes,” Charles replied. Pickles clapped his hands together, cheeks rising as he produced a toothy grin. He turned towards the room in the far back, eager to get his things and leave the filthy apartment. As he was about to disappear, Charles remembered that he didn’t possess any keys to the apartment, and followed Pickles, just until he was at the foot of the hallway. “Lend me your keys, so I can return and clean this apartment up.”

Pickled poked his head out of the bedroom. “Wait, yer gonna clean this place?" 

“This apartment needs to be cleared out, Pickles.”

Pickles jaw started to sink. “But–”

“Do you have a backpack?” Charles questioned, unwilling to hear any excuses. Time was of the essence, and Charles figured it would be a while before he could locate an affordable hotel with a vacancy at this hour. “You’ll want to bring a few things. Toiletries, some spare clothes and anything you wouldn’t want in the wrong hands. The fumigation should take a few days, so its impertinent you leave prepared. At least three pairs of socks and underwear.” 

Pickles stepped out from the room, pigeon-toed feet making small steps back into the light of the kitchen. “Yer gonna clean this apartment by yerself?” he asked.

Charles turned to the bags resting on the counter. He reached in and pulled a pair of rubber gloves, then a small box of large, heavy-duty garbage bags. Behind him, Pickles roughly shoved his hands into his jean pockets, shoulder rising and eyes darting from the bedroom to Charles. Pulling out a bottle of detergent, Charles caught Pickles in his peripheral, and sighed through his nose.

“Pickles, I need you to hurry.”

“Oh, well, uhm.” Pickles grabbed his arm at the elbow, turning away slightly and showing off his brightening cheeks in the process. “I was thinkin’…” 

“Shake a leg.” Charles continued to pull sponges and spray cans from the grocery bag, though he was well aware of the way Pickles’ shifted his weight from one leg to the next, rubbing the back of his crown until nearly every can, box, or package was aligned on the counter. “C’mon, Pickles. You can’t just stand–”

“What if I, uhhh, helped you clean up?” Pickled hesitantly suggested through a clenched grin.

Charles stopped and stared, unwilling to believe what he’d heard. “Excuse me?”

“Yknow, with the mess?” Pickles said, freeing his tight grip on his arm to point at the leaking can on the floor. He then dropped to a squat, picking it up and, dangling it as far as he could from himself, carried it over to the massive trash bag where he’d already stowed the decaying chimichanga. “Thataway, we can just leave together? And you don’ have to worry ‘bout coming back after all that drivin’?”

Pickles was willing to lend aid? Pickles, despite being so lazy he was content to live in squalor for who-knows-how long, was now offering to get down and help pick up garbage, spoiled food, soiled sheets, and whatever else?

“And, hey…I got a tenner?” Pickles said, patting his back pockets and yanking a crumbled bill out from it. He lifted it up to Charles. “Maybe when we’re done we can get somethin’ to eat?”

Charles looked past the wrinkled bill, to Pickles’ crooked grin and tense stare. “You want to help me clean?”

“Sure,” he answered, straightening both his smile and himself in the process. “I mean, if yer gonna buy me a room?”

Pickles’ cheeks brightened further, and Charles pondered the hidden meaning behind the shifting eyes, the freckles that darkened as his pale skin deepened into a vibrant pink. Charles wanted to probe further, ask why Pickles suddenly desired to help, but figured any support was better than none. There was no reason to look a gift horse in the mouth when the only other option was to tread alone. With roaches.

“Very well,” Charles said with a short nod. “I appreciate your willingness.” 

“Cool, man!” Pickles said, grinning so wide Charles could make out some peculiar red spots that stained Pickles’ teeth. Right, the spoiled Mexican food. _Of course_. Charles reached inside the bag and pulled out a small container: a bottle of Tums. He did think it was strange that his sixth sense insisted on the pills, but assumed the stress of the night would warrant a few antacids. 

“Take this,” Charles said, offering it to Pickles. “You’ll need it.”

Licking his lips, Pickles took Charles by the wrist, selfishly gripping it before sliding his hand up and snatching the bottle.

“Sweet,” he said, providing Charles a wink. “They got grape flavor. My favorite.”

* * *

The original plan consisted of a 50-50 split of chores, with Pickles focused on the bedrooms, Charles the kitchen and living room. After a few minutes of hollering and Charles turning to see Pickles swinging a broken tennis racket at a frightened mouse, slipping over a wrapper and falling face-flat into someone’s briefs, he decided to rearrange the chores and provide Pickles with more menial, domestic activities.

Pickles complained when assigned the task of washing dishes, claiming it wasn’t fair because he only ate take-out the past few days. Charles only needed to raise his brow for Pickles to grumble, shove a pair of gloves on, and start spewing detergent onto a pile of crusty, rancid-looking dishes. Once started though, Pickles began to calm, and eventually Charles would return to the apartment after making his third trip to the dumpster, and was welcomed with the sound of nasal humming and the occasional whistle.

“ _Cleanin’ all the deeshies_ ,” Pickles sang while Charles knelt and picked up some candy wrappers that covered the coffee table. He grabbed the nozzle and aimed it at a plate caked with dried cheese and beans, then blasted it with water. “ _Feedin’ all the feeshies_.”

Charles stood up, back already sore from the constant trips up and down the stairs, but each time he looked around, saw there was still so much to do. He made another trip. Then another. With the living room looking presentable, Charles returned to the coffee table, sorting through what could be recycled, and what needed to be dumped, then dragged the bag over to the armchair and started picking up empty bags of chips that were tucked in the nooks and crannies of the chair’s interior.

_“Pickin’ up trash now, what’dya gotta say about that!”_

Charles glanced and saw Pickles finished with the dishes, leaving behind a jangled, haphazard mound of dishes left to dry. The man was now in the hallway, on all fours, and scooping up pieces of paper with his bare hands. 

“ _Pickin’ up Nate’s crap! Ohhhh, and that’s a sad, sad fact_ _!_ ”

The meter was off, and Pickles was in no position to be attempting to stretch words, any notes without them breaking short thanks to his crawling and constant pauses whenever he thought he heard something small scamper by. But each time Pickles returned to his nonsensical lyrics, the pain in Charles’ lower back diminished, and when he reached deep into the armchairs crevice and felt something soft and wet melt under the touch of his gloves, was thankful that Pickles was busy performing a high-pitched _“what the fuck am I even picking up now”_ to help get across what he was feeling. 

“I’ll be in Nathan’s room,” Charles announced once he was finished with the armchair. He stood up, finding Pickles still on all fours, a nice collection of crumbled wrappers and receipts collected at his center. “You, uhh, you’re doing a swell job, Pickles. By the looks of it, we should be done in an hour or so.”

Pickles stopped his singing and rested on his knees. “Thanks, dood.” he called. “An, jus’ so ya know, this performance…usually people pay for this?” He turned his upper half, flashing a sweaty brow and strained, opened grin. “Yer gettin’ a real treat here, _Charlie_.”

Normally, Charles would protest anyone calling him any other title than his name, but hearing the offensive nickname being sung, in-tune and coming to a near-perfect rest, turned the word into a lovely note that rang pleasantly across the hallway. It was a well-performed note directed at Charles, and he’d earned more than his fair share of odd compliments from each member of the band, but the note struck him harder than anything he’d accepted from Nathan or William.

“I’m, uhh, honored,” Charles said, raising a hand to hitch his glasses up the bridge his nose. “Well, I’ll be bagging his clothes now. Don’t forget to set some aside. Clothes. Not bags”

“Gotcha,” Pickles replied, then fell on top of his hands and went back to humming some new song.

The closet in Nathan’s room was piled high with discarded clothes, some of which clearly wasn’t Nathan’s. Magnus’ maybe? Or Skwisgaar? Charles lifted a pair of faded grey jeans and sorted them into a separate pile from the much larger array ripped tops and blue and grey jeans. Within a short time, Charles managed three separate piles of clothes, and carried a feeling that, were he to check Pickles and Murderface’s room, he would likely come up with several more clusters of clothing.

How on earth did these men dress themselves? Charles shook his head as he stowed each pile into a trash bag, tying each one, save for Nathan’s. He made quick work of the messy bed sheets and comforter, then showed it all into Nathan’s bag. Charles wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, lips turned inward once he felt the drag against the cotton material. He cleaned himself as best he could, then turned for the door.

“ _Sweepin’ the kitchen._

_Sweepin’ the kitcheeeeen!”_

That peculiar feeling returned. Charles looked around the bedroom, curious to see what he missed. Trash was sorted into bags, ready to be dumped. Window sprayed to keep the bugs trapped inside. Clothes in trash bags. Sheets in trash bags. What did he miss?

_“Sweepin’ the kitchen!_

_Sweepin the–ohhhh fuck!_

_That’s a really large roooooach!”_

Charles remained still, keeping his hand hovered over the doorknob, never thinking to open the door any further. He listened to the nasally, off-tune notes, now mixed with the random smacks of the broom hitting the floor, and Charles had to admit that, even at its most vague, it was a good enough sense of have. It was asinine that he’d wake up in the middle of the night just to clean up an apartment and save the boys from getting evicted or poisoning themselves; even crazier, that he did it because of some feeling he couldn’t explain, much less excuse, that lead him to buy the right amount of cleaning materials, and antacid for a drummer who couldn’t tell chili from mildew. Any reasonable man would consider him a fool for doing it, all for a band that hadn’t even signed a record deal, but here he stood, admiring the yelps and screams of a man who couldn’t be bothered to step on a bug.

“Aw, crap!” Pickles yelled out, hitting the floor repeatedly with his small, plastic broom. “Why do you keep movin’! Die!”

Charles burst through the door, passing through a cleaner hallway and into the kitchen. He saw Pickles holding the broom by the handle, making jabs at a large, hairy roach. Charles took the handle, stopping Pickles from another attempt. Startled, Pickles flinched, but was held in place by his manager’s hold on the broom. Without breaking contact, Charles brought his foot down on the roach, crushing it with a nasty crackling _snap_. The sound of its gruesome demise echoed across the kitchen, sending a vibration up the broom’s pole that traveled up Charles arm. Unblinking, he gazed down at Pickles, the source of those unending tremors.

“It’s dead,” Charles announced, and a final quake burst through the handle as Pickles broke into a fit of rapid nods.

“Uh, thanks!” he exclaimed through a bright red face. Pickles’ mouth remained open, lips already in the process of curling and forming words, but then he backed off, releasing his shaking grip from the handle and stowing his hot, clammy hands back into his pockets.

“Not a problem,” Charles replied coolly, earning another exasperated head shake from Pickles. “How about you get your clothes ready, while I finish this here?”

Chuckling, Pickles gave a nod. “Sounds good, Charlie.”

He was using that cumbersome nickname again, only this time it lacked the finesse of being sung aloud. Charles still found it oddly welcoming, at least when Pickles uttered it. Likely because it didn’t possess any cruel, ulterior motive to it. Yes, that was it. But even as Pickles wiped his face and started for the bedroom, Charles pondered if, just because it was Pickles, he ought to let it slide. His eyes dropped to the broom’s handle, and as Pickles made the turn, Charles raised his head up and, without turning, said aloud: “That’s _Charles_.”

A new silence erupted in the kitchen, one so heavy that even the flies and other insects barraging the kitchen ceased their movement. Charles exhaled through his nostrils, embracing the voice that informed him to remain still for two additional seconds, before casually glancing over his shoulder.

He observed Pickles standing before him, mouth agape at the demand. This time, Pickles was so pink, Charles could make out each heightened freckle that painted his skin. 

Pickles closed his jaw, only to shake and have it fall open again. “S-sure thing, _Charles_.”

Now _that_. That sounded just right.

* * *

At Charles’ request, Pickles took charge of marking the trash bags with clothes, and dumping the remaining ones outside. Charles took to clearing out the remaining debris, listening in on the occasional hum that, if Charles didn’t know any better, had slowed into something low and sultry. He never allowed himself to enjoy the notes for too long, instead keeping vigilant on any small critters that dared to scurry down his path. In just a few hours the entire complex would be encased and all the pests would suffer their end, but Charles found giving chase, no matter how small, awarded him with a laugh, a cheer, or a few improvised changes in Pickles’ lyrics.

“Kill that motherfucker, Charles!” Pickles yelled from outside.

“No need to yell at this hour, Pickles.” 

“Aw, s’not like anyone else is here to complain!” 

Hard to explain why it mattered so much that Pickles performed a grand crescendo right as he sprayed half a can of pesticide on a rodent, only that Charles surged with pride once it was over, and the frightened thing scampered out the front door, and into the night. Pickles yelped, jumped over the seizing pest to reenter the apartment. He wiped his shiny forehead, brushing off any accumulating sweat unto his jeans before trying to fix the short strands of gingery hair that still clung to his scalp.

“How we doin’,” Pickles asked, leaning against a portion of the wall that was clear of any egg cartons.

“Both rooms are as prepared as they’ll ever be,” Charles said, then did a final summarization of the chores they’d completed since entering the apartment. Most of the garbage was tossed, save for a final few bags sorted into a corner. What could be recycled rested in another pile, and any clothes that weren’t soiled labeled and tucked away on top of the beds. The fridge was cleared, floor visible, and although there was still quite the number of insects residing in the deeper alcoves of the apartment, Charles had killed enough to know they would remain hidden for the rest of the night.

Pickles crossed his arms. “So, we almost done, or what?”

“Just a few trash bags left,” Charles explained. “I suggest you wash your face. I’ll take out the remaining–”

“Nah, fuck that,” Pickles said, lifting from the wall to pass by Charles. He grabbed the man by the arm and gave him a rough yank. “Come on,” he said, snickering and showing off his white, shiny incisors. “Let’s get this shit done an’ over with.”

Charles noticed his breath reeked of sweet artificial flavoring. Fake grape. Pickles remembered to take the antacid when his stomach started to bother him. That, or he was hungry and used the pills to stave off some of the hunger. Another rough yank and Pickles reaching for one of the smaller bags suggested to Charles it was probably the latter.

He waited until they were both outside, Pickles with one bag hoisted over his shoulder, and Charles carrying the remaining two in his hands, before mentioning the time.

“So, what will it be?” Charles asked aloud once he reached the bottom of the stairs.

Pickles raced ahead of him, making a slight spin as he shifted the bag’s weight and tossed it all into the filling dumpster. “What?” he heaved out once he saw Charles steadily approach.

“Food,” Charles said. “You’ve been working for nearly two hours. I imagine you’ve worked up quite the appetite.” The weight of both garbage bags strained both arms. Charles dropped them just short of reaching the dumpster. Sighing, he added, “I’ll be honest, I don’t know too many establishments that are open at this hour.”

Pickles hurried over, a lopsided grin stretching across his face as he dropped to pick one of the bags. “S’fine, I know plenty.” He stood up, careful not to bend or put any weight on his back, then stumbled over to the dumpster. “And no worries! Yer gettin’ me a room.”

“It’s the least I can do.” 

Pickles raised both arms up as he returned to Charles for the second bag. “I mean, the last manager we had didn’ think too hard ‘bout that.”

“Yes, well, there’s a reason why he’s no longer your manager,” Charles replied when Pickles stood up, heavier bag now on tow.

The man nearly tripped over himself once his eyes met with Charles’, but he was quick with his reflexes, and recovered with only a little help from Charles. The two held on to the bag together, with Charles taking most of the burden, and tossing it into the dumpster.

“Thanks for cleaning the apartment, Charles.” Pickles wiped his hands together, then raised them up to perform a wet, joint-popping stretch. He was red, glossy from all the work, but Charles still managed to make out the moment his flushed face went from a result of exhaustion, to some far humbler and quaint. Pickles dropped his arms. “And, uhh, helpin’ me out when I needed it. With them pests. And the food. An' hotel.”

“Thanks for your assistance, Pickles.” Charles returned, then offered his hand to him. “And providing some entertainment in the meantime,” he added, bringing his hand up right as Pickles made a grab for it. Charles held it high, right above a dazed Pickles. “High five.”

“Uhh, sure,” Pickles said, returning the high five with one of his clammy palms.

They returned to the apartment, with Charles standing by the open door. He told Pickles to go wash his face and grab whatever he packed as effectively as he could, then followed to grab his coat and things. A few minutes later, Charles returned to the front door, folded coat resting on his arm, and hand fishing through it for a cigarette and lighter.

Having performed so much labor in a short time, Charles was eager to conclude the night–now early morning. There was still a hotel in need of locating though, and Charles figured that would require some driving around. Good thing Pickles mentioned food. Charles wondered if he had enough for a coffee. It would throw off his sleep schedule, but Charles couldn’t fathom falling asleep and getting a completed cycle in before sunrise. He remembered Pickles showing off his crumbled ten, and although he found the gesture kind, felt bad about Pickles spending what little money he had on caffeine. 

The man hadn’t considered sleeping at a friend’s, or renting a cheap bed at a hostel. Did Pickles lack the resources? The funds? That itch from before returned, but this time it was concentrated solely on Pickles. Not Mordhaus, or the boys. Charles hit the front of his carton against his palm. Besides him, the opened door revealed large, flickering shadows. Charles tucked cigarette between his lips right as Pickles arrived, face freshly washed, and backpack hanging from his left shoulder.

“Ready when you are,” Pickles said, picking the second strap and hoisting it over his second right.

He closed the door, pulled out his keys, and locked it shut. Charles watched, feeling the itch, that concern strengthen once Pickles shoved the keys back into his pocket and faced Charles, his eyes fine-cut emeralds that glowed under the old, decrepit lighting.

“I, uhh,” Charles fumbled over his words, rolling the cigarette between his lips as he dragged a foot from front to heel. “I know you mentioned knowing restaurants that are open, but,” he said, watching Pickles’ brows turn upright, “Well, I just wanted you to know I have food at my place. My home.”

The cobweb infested lamplight above them flickered, then died out. Even with his limited vision, Charles could see the white of Pickles’ eyes and the bright, cat-like stare that was set upon him.

“You wouldn’t have to spend money,” Charles continued. His thumb nervously clicked against the opening of his lighter, unsure whether he should allow some light, or use the darkness as a potential shield. “I can prepare something there,” Charles said, biting the end of his cigarette once he realized the quality of food he had at home wouldn’t fit the taste of a rock star. Still, there was no going back now, and that silent whisper told him to continue. “Not a burger. Likely just a sandwich and some chips. Maybe a drink, if you don’t mind juice, milk or coffee?”

Pickles stepped forward right as the lamplight above seized and sputtered some clarity on the matter. “That sounds pretty damn good,” Pickles said, pulling the straps on his backpack. He took another step closer, and above them the light crackled and solidified, bringing forth that Cheshire smile, tightly squinted eyes and a raised hand. “High five, dood?”

Elated at the response, Charles brought his hand up, eager to make contact. His hand clapped against Pickles, and Charles expected nothing but a new sense of kinship between him and the man, but then Pickle’s hand latched around Charles’, and before the man could react, was rudely yanked forward. Charles’ stumbled, losing his cigarette in the process. His stare dropped to the floor in search of it, but all he saw were Pickles’ legs closing the gap, and when Charles’ attempted to correct himself, met the sharp bristles of Pickles’ unkempt face scratching his, followed by those once-sweaty fingers swiftly interlacing with his own. Charles thought to protest, but then noticed the second hand holding him up, supporting and guiding him back to a better standing position, just without the familiar and comforting gap Charles usually enforced with most.

“Thanks again, _Charlie_ ,” Pickles whispered, pushing each word out with hot breath that tickled and sent an impossibly intense chill down Charles’ back. No singing involved, but spoken that the nickname became its own song, accompanied with its own special meaning.

It was half past two when Charles and Pickles made their way down to the car, Pickles hopping down two steps at a time, stopping to wait when the tension in their clasped hands informed him that Charles was catching up. Charles split his concentration between safely descending the stairs, the new title awarded to him, and tolerating that alien sensation of another person leading him, touching and clasping his hand. Every few seconds, every few steps that urge to free himself from this new world arose, but then that peculiar inkling returned, telling him it was alright, to let the man guide him to his car, and like all those times before Charles submitted, embracing the impossible with a tired smile.


End file.
